


a clock whose seconds are synchronized to your heartbeat

by twoheadedcalf



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Divergent, Domestic, House sharing, Journey to the Center of the Mind, M/M, Orc Culture, Slow Burn, also a bunch of made up npcs i guess, like eventually. hopefully., these tags may change in the future!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twoheadedcalf/pseuds/twoheadedcalf
Summary: She hears light murmuring and turns just in time to see Fjord flinching in his sleep. She waits for a gasp and a belch of saltwater but nothing happens – Fjord just turns and settles again.She watches for a few more moments before glancing around the dome, just checking. Beau doesn’t jump when she catches Caleb’s brown eyes watching her in the dark but it’s honestly creepy as fuck. A lot of things regarding Caleb are.*After the mess that is Bazzoxan, The Mighty Nein wander through the Greying Wildlands in search of the Wildmother's remaining temples. They decide to stop by Boroftkrah, fostering hopes of gaining a guiding hand.  Along the way, Fjord and Caleb, eventually, learn how to stop running.





	1. (00) a forest of crashing cymbals

**Author's Note:**

> okay, an explanation: i started writing this before fjord had the wildmother's vision so that's not canon for this fic. the fic takes place in the nebulous near-future after tm9 have dealt with yasha's whole thing in bazzoxan.
> 
> another thing: caleb has brown eyes and he's not white in this. k bye.

“So, are we running away or running towards something this time?” Nott asks once they’ve reached the border between Xhorhas and the Greying Wildlands. There’s nothing pinpointing the change, no gate, no guards, but they just know.

The plant life has been steadily changing from shrubs and scrubland to skinny trees that must make a very pretty forest during the summer. The needle leaves that litter the forest floor are getting steadily covered by the now ever-falling snow.

Nott is folded into herself at the front of the cart by Caduceus’ side, and Caleb knows that she’s as reassured as she is scared by the fact that Yeza and Luc are so far away, warm and hopefully safe in Nicodranas.

“I’m not running away from anything anymore.” Yasha says, further back in the cart, sounding both haunted and determined, the same she’s sounded ever since they left Bazzoxan.

“Does it matter?” Caleb says, not raising his eyes from the book he’s re-reading for the third time, his thumb holding it open, and his index finger rubbing against the cut corners of the pages.

“I guess not. It’s not like we have anything better to do.”

Caleb can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not, but decides against saying, _well, we could be in the Dynasty, working towards ending the war_. He doubts anyone would appreciate it.

“I am in search of something. The other Wildmother temples.” Caduceus says.

“Do you think you’ll get the answer you’re looking for?” Caleb asks, a bit doubtful but still sincere, hoping, if only for his friend, for someone who deserves to get what he needs.

“I think so. Either way, it’ll be a step in the right direction.”

“Do you think they’ll be able to help us in any way?” Nott asks.

“Well, they’ll aid me and in turn, I’ll continue to aid you.”

Nott nods mildly, as if saying, _that’s fair_.

*

The forest path they’ve been traveling through is not pretty in the least. Not oddly charming and eerie in the way Xhorhas was and not richly green like the Empire is. It just looks empty and dead. At night, there’s no hiding from the moon, not with how naked the trees are. The forest is oddly silent, in a way it shouldn’t be; it doesn’t match with the nights Caleb spent in Empirical forests with Nott, the cacophony of it, the insects, the animals, the leaves brushing against each other. He tries not to be unsettled by it.

He raises his head when Beau noisily makes her way to the log he’s sitting on, her journal under her arm. He tries not to feel too proud.

She sits down and says, plainly, “Will you help me?”

“Sure. What is it, Beauregard?”

“Trying to figure out where exactly we are going.” She opens her journal to a specific page, shows him a very crude map. Caleb knows she has given up on asking Caduceus, frustrated by his vague answers. Sometimes intuition is enough to guide their group, sometimes it’s not.

He nods, settles himself to share and speculate on their frankly very small knowledge of the region. Maybe it’ll be enough. It’s somewhere in the mountains, right?

*

It’s definitely not enough. They power through it during dinner and supper, so focused on it they basically inhale their food. By the end of it, they have a very practical, if not pretty, map of the region.

Caleb pats her shoulder lightly, done with this, knowing he won’t be able to wrangle out any more information out of his own brain.

Beau continues to stare at it. “Maybe Fjord can help.”

Caleb stares at her. “ _Was_?”

“He knows maps…?”

“Eh…” He says, shoulders rising up in a half-formed shrug.

They stare at each other for a moment, before she calls out, “Hey, Fjord!” He rumbles back at her from where he’s arranging his sleeping bag, closing the semi-circle that will later fit into the hut. “C’mere!” She says, coupling the command with a head motion to emphasize it.

Fjord comes, rumbling under his breath. He stops two steps in front of them. “What?”

“You know maps.” Beau says, and her voice is at the same time assertive and doubtful. “Help me with this map.” And shoves her journal into his hands.

He stares for just a moment. “I know how to _read_ maps, not how to _make_ them.”

Beau huffs in disappointment and raises her hand to retrieve it.

“Although, I do know about a place around here…” He says, absently thumbing one corner of the page, and when he looks up he sees both Beau and Caleb looking up at him with their eyebrows quirked, mirror images of each other. Freaky shit. “What?”

“What do you mean, _you know about a place around here_?” Beau says, incredibly derisive.

“Where is it?” Caleb says, incredibly inquisitive.

Fjord suddenly remembers that neither of them was there during his visits to Wursh. He’s very thankful for that, for some reason. He blinks at them for a moment before crouching down, putting the journal between the three of them so everyone in class can see. He points slightly to the northwest of where they are right now. “There’s a village here. The blacksmith at Rosohna is from there, he told me about it.”

“We should go there.” Beau says.

Fjord glances sharply at her, hackles rising. “What?”

“She’s right. They can give us directions and, maybe, _an actual map_.”

“It’s an orc village.” Fjord says quick, not knowing exactly what he means to do by sharing this information.

“What about it?” Beau says, in a half-shrug. Caleb just stares at him, and Fjord panics at the thought that the wizard can read all of him, recognize his defensiveness for what it is.

“Nothing.” Fjord says, entirely too nonchalant. “Just thought I’d let y’all know.” He raises up to his full height.

Beau squints at him, suspicious now. Caleb remains as stoic as ever. “We’ll discuss it with the group tomorrow.” Caleb says. Beau and Fjord nod.

Fjord goes back to his sleeping bag and tries not to let dread take over his body.

*

The rest of the group agrees because of course they do, fuck his life anyway, and also, because it feels like a sensible decision, the first one they’ve made in a week, and it just feels nice to have a clear direction.

He can sense Jester staring at him as discreetly as possible but she doesn’t speak up about it and she doesn’t speak _to him_ about it either, which he’s grateful for. Fjord is not ready to poke _that_ hornets’ nest just yet.

*

They are still a ways away from Boroftkrah, or Bora-Bora, as Jester and Nott have deigned to call it (hopefully they’ll keep the nickname to themselves when they are actually there, though that’s improbable), a week to go, if they keep a steady pace.

There’s not much to do here. There’s never anything to do, really, when they are travelling but here, at this transitional, quiet place, it’s even worse. Caleb wonders what makes this place so soulless, and the only explanation he can muster is that it’s a border between two places no one wants to visit. He finds that answer extremely lacking.

One night, during the second watch, joined by Nott, through Frumpkin’s eyes, he sees a creature walking through the forest, not much different from a deer, but bigger and with more legs, a bisected head, and entirely too silent. He decides to stop watching after that, and to snap Frumpkin back to the fey realm.

As an adventurer, Caleb is used to monsters (whatever that really means). As someone who grew up in a small, humble town, he is not used to seeing creepy, other-worldly animals. He only saw cattle for the first time after leaving the asylum. He’d never seen a boar in real life until after meeting The Mighty Nein. Spider-legged two-headed deers are a lot to take in.

He decides to ask Yasha about it in the morning, although he’s sure she won’t be able to answer him.

*

Predictably, she does not have an answer for him. He’s not even really disappointed.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been this far north.” And because that’s repetitive (gods, she must be so annoyed with all of them for asking her questions she’ll never have the answers to), she completes, “Bigger animal forms are common around this part of the continent, though.”

Caleb starts nodding but then Jester says, from the back of the cart where she’s sitting, her legs swinging about, “Bigger what forms now?” And he knows she’s just fishing for conversation so she can quell her own boredom.

“Bigger animal forms.” Yasha replies dutifully. “I- Um. Caleb saw one of them last night.”

Jester pulls her legs up and scoots closer to them, crosses her legs, rests her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands. Caleb is lightly endeared by the display.

“During watch last night, I saw a very big deer. Very eerie.”

Jester perks up, if only a bit, at that. “Like a creepy one? Like something out of a horror story?”

Caleb frowns at that. “I guess…”

“Describe it to me, Mister Cay-leb.” She says, sounding entirely too serious and entirely too joke-y.

Caleb describes the creature to her, of course, embellishing the parts that were too blurry in the dark so she can actually have a nice picture. When she’s finally silent and focused on drawing, he asks, “Do you like horror stories, Jester?”

“A little. I think they’re funny.” She half-shrugs. Caleb doesn’t know what to do with that. “Why do you ask? You have many horror stories to tell?”

Caleb is not touching the second question with a ten-foot-long pole. “Just thought I’d get you a horror book next time. Instead of smut.”

“Noooo. Romance novels are the best. They are my favorites!” But Caleb’s mind is already set.

*

Sometime later, after Jester has stopped drawing (hand cramps, she’d said), her sketch finished but not inked yet, she calls him.

“Caaaay-leb.” She says and he stops counting leafless trees and catches the tail end of her regretfully pulling her gaze away from Yasha’s hair to look at him.

“Yes, Jester?”

“Can I braid your hair?”

Caleb’s sigh is deep enough that his shoulders sag, but he lets her braid his hair.

*

Fjord has been steadily making progress in polishing his armor, despite knowing that having it well-oiled doesn’t make that much of a difference for him. It’s a good way to keep his mind from roaming, keep the dark things inside his head at bay.

He’s startled out of his task when Jester says, “You know, you should let me do this to you sometime, Fjord.”

Fjord raises his head and watches Jester braid Caleb’s hair for a few seconds, an inside out braid going up the side of his head. She’s focusing a lot on it which means she cares about Fjord’s answer and is trying not to show it. He hums. “Mm….What?”

“You should let me braid your hair!” A beat. “Sometime…” She says, to make it milder.

Fjord raises a hand to his head, runs it through the light curls forming at the top, and flicks the silver-white strands. “I should cut it soon.”

Jester makes a wounded noise at that but it’s Caleb who says, decisive, “You should not.”, while looking at Fjord through half-lidded eyes, gaze pulled away from Frumpkin curled up in his lap.

Fjord doesn’t nod, just looks at him. He’s still gonna ask Beau about it, get her to help him cut it, but maybe he’ll wait a while more.

Caleb looks at Jester from the corner of his eyes, careful not to disturb her position at his side. “Is my hair not enough for you, blueberry?”

Jester huffs. “Well, it’s not like that. You know, the more hair the better!”

“I’ve got more than enough hair to spare.”

Jester smirks, suddenly going smarmy. “You’re this hairy everywhere, huh, Caleb?” Her eyebrows quirk up.

He huffs through his nose, the sound very similar to a compressed laugh. “Sure.” The corners of his mouth go down then twist up, the shape very similar to a contained smile. “Want to see?”

Jester gasps. “Caleb!” And then smacks his shoulder, light but still enough to make him flinch. “We’ll set up a meeting.” She says, official-like.

Then, she sets Caleb’s side-braid with a shiny thing Fjord can’t identify and sits down in front of the wizard to work on his bangs. Suddenly, the conversation has ended and Fjord can’t see either of their faces.

His brain hasn’t been really registering the changes around him as it should. He knows, objectively, that Caleb’s hair has been getting longer, has never seen the wizard take scissors to it but only now does Fjord notice the stark difference: Caleb then, with a full beard, his hair barely brushing past his ears; Caleb now, clean shaven, his wavy hair brushing against his shoulders.

Fjord isn’t sure when he stopped paying attention. He was never any good at it, really.

He can see now, how Jester’s hair has gone from a cute bob to a cut that brushes against her neck constantly. He rakes his nails against the fuzzy hair on the sides of his head, like that will drive the point home. Fjord goes back to polishing his armor, but there’s less nerve put into it now.

*

One night during watch, Beau hears a noise that sounds suspiciously like the yowl of a strangled owl. She tries not to be unsettled by it and finds that she isn’t, is strangely comforted by the presence of another form of life, and a familiar one at that.

She glances up at the dome’s ceiling, looks at Frumpkin resting atop of it, the form of a slightly malnourished vulture he’s been in for probably a bit more than two weeks now. She’s confident that he can fight whatever wild animal that decides to have a go at him, is rattled by the fact that he probably won’t have to.

(Beau thinks Caleb is probably comforted by that. Gone are the days where Frumpkin could be taken out by one measly kick.)

They haven’t had many encounters, humanoid or otherwise: yesterday, they had to fight a lone direwolf that looked suspiciously healthy but that was it; turned out to be good food for the moorbounders. This place is austere and they don’t know much about it, it’s the truth.

Beau knows that’s her literal fucking job, technically: gathering information. She remembers the early days when The Mighty Nein could formulate cohesive theories on scraps of information. Now it just feels like they’ve been running around non-stop with no clue to what they’re doing. But then again, nothing is as simple as it was back then.

She hears light murmuring and turns just in time to see Fjord flinching in his sleep. She waits for a gasp and a belch of saltwater but nothing happens – Fjord just turns and settles again.

She watches for a few more moments before glancing around the dome, just checking. Beau doesn’t jump when she catches Caleb’s brown eyes watching her in the dark but it’s honestly creepy as fuck. A lot of things regarding Caleb are.

She makes a motion with her head. He immediately gets up, the waterfall braid he’s been sporting for a couple of days rustled, makes his way to her as silently as possible, settles close but without touching. Caleb is always so fucking warm; she feels it on her own skin. He’s the warmest person Beau knows. It’s weird.

There’s a beat, as they stare at everyone else sleeping inside the dome.

“Nightmares.” Beau says lowly, quiet. “Everyone has them.”

“Sure.” Caleb says, in the same tone. He shuffles a bit, gets close but still no touching, like he’s trying to make sure she’s warm. She already has the scarf he forced her to wear, even though she didn’t ask for it, even though she has winter clothes, but she’s not gonna complain. For now.

(The thing belonged to him and it positively reeks but it’s effective. She’s warm and the weight of it comforts her.)

They settle into watch together.

*

They’ve been traveling for enough days that the tension starts to build. Not inside the group, no, they are well past that. It’s just that most of them can sense the village getting closer or, at least, they feel like they can. They are all experienced travelers by now, they know these kinds of things – right?

They are all antsy, filled to the brim with anticipation (well, _most_ of them anyway; Fjord is seriously considering pulling Beau aside and asking for a quick and dirty haircut but that would only broadcast his panic). Every now and then, one of them will raise their head and search for signs. They never find any.

At one point, Beau asks Caleb if he’s ever ridden a horse before. Caleb looks up at her and takes a moment to be bewildered. “I- What?”

“Well, you know, I’ve never seen you riding a horse before, you always stay inside the cart. I would say you don’t know how to, but…” She makes a head motion, indicating the moorbounders that are pulling them forward. “You ride Jannik pretty well.”

Caleb swallows and determinedly tries to not look shy, and to not let his ears go all red and his complexion to go tanned and healthy. “I’ve ridden horses before. Back when I was young.” _When I was part of the Academy_ , he doesn’t say.

By the look on Beau’s face, Caleb has not succeeded in looking serious and unaffected. Both of her eyebrows have gone up. “And what _else_ have you ridden, Caleb?”

Before he can come up with an outraged reply, Caduceus hums from where he is at the front of the cart and oh gods, he can’t believe Caduceus, of all people, is going to be part of this conversation.

But the firbolg doesn’t make a comment, just raises his hand to point and says, “Look.”. Both Caleb and Beau look.

It’s still a little ways away but they can see the white smoke in the sky, the concrete signs of life, the company of other people, maybe. It’ll take the whole morning and a good part of the afternoon but they’re finally here.

The rest of the trip is spent discussing how, exactly, they’re going to make these people, at the very least, tolerate them. How they’ll make themselves palatable. Are they going to lie? (Definitely not, Caduceus says.) Who’s going to talk? ( _Not_ Beau and Caleb, Nott says.) What about the moorbounders? (Like clockwork, Jester and Caleb spring up to defend the beasts.)

Fjord stays quiet through most of it which has Beau and Caleb staring at him, expectant, considering he’s the one who brought up the settlement in the first place, and has Jester glancing at him, anxious.

The lack of forthcoming information is amended by sending Frumpkin ahead as a scout, as they’ve done many times before.

Boroftkrah is nothing to sneeze at, bigger than Alfield and only slightly smaller than Trostenwald. The houses aren’t big, more like cabins then anything, but they are well made and seem resistant. There are people in the grassy streets, a good number of them, dressed in wool tunics and fur-lined coats. A nice enough place, it seems.

And hearing all of that just makes Fjord more anxious. He tries to calm down and does, a bit too much. He calms down so much he almost slips into being someone else, something fake and slippery, before remembering that’ll probably only make things worse with these people.

Gods, he just can’t catch a break, can he?


	2. (01) mangled fruit, red dust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'm not gonna post chapter 2 until i start working on chapter 3  
> me, after episode 69: OH OKAY I HAVE TO POST THIS RIGHT NOW
> 
> anyway i hope you all enjoy it; there probably won't be new content for a long while after this bc 1) it takes a lot of work 2) i'll be working on beaujester week prompts!!!!
> 
> also, i thought i'd mention this again, for clarification purposes: MY caleb 1) isn't white 2) has brown eyes

The sight of Boroftkrah doesn’t make Fjord’s stomach settle. The place isn’t pretty, as drab as anything else they’ve seen in the Wildlands, if only a little more lively. All the wood is strange and grey, as is the grass on the ground, seemingly dead and dry. A sad place.

They don’t stroll into the settlement like they would anywhere else, like they would in any other town. This is not like any other town. Fjord and Caduceus are the ones who walk down one of the main streets, accompanied by Clarabelle and their cart, while the rest of the group waits on the edge of town with the other moorbounders.

They are stared at but not attacked which is  _ something _ , at least. Caduceus is stared at most places he goes, being all pink and so tall; Fjord could even pretend that’s all there is to it. Except most people here are at least eight feet tall and looking at them with distrust (at least, it isn’t disgust. Yet.).

Caduceus is sensible enough to only stop someone that’s not working, not busy, their hair mostly silver, their shoulders not as rounded out, one of their tusks chipped. Fjord tries not to stare. They sound out some vague directions. Fjord says a very serious “thank you” that gets him a weird look.

Boroftkrah seems functional, practical and, most important of all, permanent, which isn’t what he expects from orcs, not from the stories he’d been told as a kid, at least. Any place that an orc settles into is intermittent, temporary; they are always ready to leave and ravish some other area – and, actually, now that he thinks about it, those stories sound awfully biased. Maybe he shouldn’t allow them to be his frame of reference.

The place they were guided to is shaped like a double-ended giant wooden cornucopia, more like a passageway than an actual building, centered right in the middle of town. He has to admit, it’s innovative. There are a lot of supplies leaning against the walls, a few weapons and tools, nothing too sharp. There’s also a group of seemingly very important people, discussing important things.

Caduceus interrupts them because of course he does. He does it  _ politely _ but still. The person with long dark hair, silver streaks running along their temples, all of it thick and held back by a braid tied off with a silver thread is the one who addresses them; they look the least wary, which isn’t really saying much.

“Say who you are and what you want here.” Their voice is calm, collected, like this is par for the course.

“We are travelers looking for help and guidance. My name is Caduceus Clay. We are no threat.” One of the women behind the long-haired orc snorts, like,  _ yeah, you clearly aren’t _ .

Fjord steps forward, serious, determined. “We can offer coin in exchange for help and directions.”

The orc’s eyes hone in on him, vibrant, smart. Fjord doesn’t cower. “We don’t trade in gold here.”

“Gold is not the only thing we have to offer.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Fjord has the distinct impression he’s being looked up and down even though the orc’s eyes have not drifted away from his face.

“We have others with us. More people. Of all kinds.” Caduceus says.  _ He _ gets looked up and down.

“As weird as you?”

“Everyone’s weird in their own way.” Caduceus smiles, pleasant, as blasé as ever.

There’s a beat. Then, the orc makes a head motion in the direction they came from. “You go get them.” They look at Fjord, “You and the beast stay here. For safeguarding reasons.”   _ As hostages if anything goes wrong _ , they don’t say but Fjord hears anyway. It’s smart, he’ll give them that.

Caduceus goes after whispering a bunch of sweet words to Clarabelle. The orc turns away from him, goes back to addressing the two women, clearly not threatened by Fjord and the moorbounder. He makes the executive decision to not take any offense.

He takes time to properly scan the place. The structure looks like it’s made of wood, sturdy and thick, the same wood they build the houses with, but it’s covered in grey, dry straw, disposable and portable. The sacks of supplies that lean against the walls are mostly salted meats and furs. The tools and weapons don’t look that special, almost like anyone could use them.

By the time he’s done, the two women have been dismissed and the orc is staring at him, their arms crossed. He doesn’t know if the smudge at the back of their neck is a tattoo or simply dirt.

“What’s your name, runt?”

Fjord stops himself from going stiff and awkward, remembers how Wursh used the same word and didn’t mean anything by it, even apologized for it. “I’m Fjord.”

“How did you folks know about Boroftkrah?”

“There’s a blacksmith in Rosohna. Wursh. He said this is where he’s from.”

They grumble, like they recognize the name, although Fjord can’t figure out if they’re being fake or not. “Pretty hard place to find.” They say, like a challenge.

Fjord tries to not squint too hard at them. “We have some pretty smart people with us.”

The orc hums, a glint in their eyes. Then, the two of them turn to watch the parade that is The Mighty Nein coming up the main street. Fjord doesn’t cringe but it’s a near thing.

*

They stop at the south entrance of the cornucopia, an almost perfect line-up, with Fjord and Caduceus a couple of steps ahead. Their eyes go through the group, like they’re sizing them up. Nothing about them changes at the sight of two humans.

“Introduce yourselves.”

They take a few seconds to start, daring each other to go first. And then, “Yasha.”

“I’m Jester.”

“Caleb Widogast.”

“Beau.”

Nott hesitates, which earns her the stink eye from Caduceus. “I’m Nott.”

They hum. “I’m Ozra. I’m the warden of Boroftkrah. All decisions go through me.” They all nod simultaneously. “Outsiders are unusual here. So what do you want?”

They all stay silent. Fjord angles his head towards Caduceus, unsure if he’s indicating the firbolg or prompting him to speak.

Caduceus clears his throat. “I’m searching for a place in the mountains. I’ve never been there, I don’t know exactly where it is but I know it exists. We want some directions. And a guide, if you are so inclined.”

“Maybe a map, too.” Beau says.

Ozra squints at her before turning back to Caduceus. “And what do you have to offer?”

Caleb starts, “We have plenty of coin t-” Even though they don’t, not really.

And before he can finish, both Fjord and Ozra say, at the same time:

“They do not trade in gold here.”

“We do not trade in gold here in Boroftkrah.”

A beat.

“We do not care for useless metal here.”

“We have… Other stuff, too.” Beau says.

“Such as?”

“Jester and I can create a great amount of food and water every day.” Caduceus says.

“We hunt. And that’s not very permanent.”

Caduceus amends to that, half-nods.

“Oh, I can do this!” Jester rips one of the ends of her skirt, then clutches the Traveler symbol tied to her waist, does a few hand-wavy motions. Her skirt is back to what it was before. “Ta-da! Only with small rips, though.”

“Helpful.” They say, not sounding sarcastic, but not all that impressed either.

“I can do this.” Caleb says, and suddenly his hands are on fire, the flame almost reaching the ceiling. Ozra squints at him, not impressed, but distrusting instead. “And this.” He makes a few specific motions with his hand and the giant cat paw appears, picking up their cart and holding it up in the air.

(Fjord remembers a similar display happening a few weeks ago. He doesn’t know which of the two is worse.)

Ozra continues to squint at Caleb. “How long can you hold that?”

“A few minutes. But I can make it appear plenty of times per day.”

Ozra hums. They glance around the group one more time before half-nodding. “It’ll be discussed. At the very least, you’ll get to spend the night and have your answer in the morning. C’mon.” They make another head motion to make the group follow.

By the time The Mighty Nein manage to handle the logistics of getting through to the north side of the cornucopia with three moorbounders and a cart, Ozra is talking to someone. They turn back to the group. “Don’t do anything rash, outsiders. You’ll have your answer in the morning.” They pat the woman’s shoulder then leave.

The orc woman is tall, at least eight feet, probably full-blooded, and muscular. Her hair is short, dark and curly, held back by a simple red headband. She looks at them, annoyed. “Come on. I’ll show you to your quarters.”

Jester immediately sidles up to her. “What’s your name?” The almost three feet of height difference between them is comical.

The woman barely glances at her. “Dizro.”

“What do you do?”

“Hunting party.”

“Do you like it here?”

“It’s fine.” It’s hard to discern if the word comes out harsh like that because of annoyance or because of bitterness.

It goes on like that until they are on the eastward edge of the town. Dizro slams the door to one of the houses open. “These are your quarters. There’s a communal dinner at the center, if you want it.” And then she walks off, to the sound of Jester’s ‘ _ byeeeee _ ’.

*

The house they’ve been given is a bit small, only has two tiny bedrooms and a slightly bigger kitchen. It’s still bigger than the dome, warm and furnished and solid, so they don’t complain (they wouldn’t, either way).

Caduceus ends up cooking them dinner, as they collectively decide to stay inside to avoid straining the half-formed diplomatic relation. The Mighty Nein are a lot to take in and their sheer chaotic energy has not dimmed with time; they all are well aware of that.

When Nott sets her sleeping bag close to his on the kitchen floor, Caleb doesn’t say anything, just revels in being able to give comfort and receive it in return. He’d never say it to anyone, especially not to her, but he misses this: the closeness, the understanding. He’d never guilt-trip her that way and he knows, down to his rotten core, that he doesn’t deserve any of it but he misses it.

Fjord lays down at the middle distance between them and the door, like he’s trying to transform his body into an obstacle. Caleb isn’t sure what kind of delusions he’s harboring about this place but decides not to comment on it.

Frumpkin keeps watch over them, the same way he does when they are on the road, and when Caleb watches the outside through his familiar’s eyes, all he can register is the flame of a campfire, far away. All seems well. All seems peaceful.

*

Caleb trades between oversleeping and not sleeping enough. He always feels like shit either way: too exhausted or too restless or both. His body and his mind never take pity on him: he’s their beating bag and he knows it.

He rises early, the sky outside a sweet, radiant pink that reminds him of Jester and the fruits they all ate on their voyage through the Menagerie Coast – everything exuberant and flooding. He misses the unfamiliar taste of it, the strange mix of sea-salt and sweetness.

He settles into rehashing the notes he has on his spellbook, even though there’s nothing to rehash, nothing to revision, and only stops when Caduceus gets up. The firbolg looks well-rested (he always does; Caleb envies him). He looks around the kitchen floor, at Fjord and Nott’s sleeping forms, the half-orc now closer, a pool of Nott’s drool by his face, then says to Caleb, “I’m going to start making breakfast, very quietly.”

Caleb nods. “I can help you, if you want.”

Caduceus tilts his head, looks like he’s about to shrug but ultimately doesn’t. “Sure.”

Together, they start preparing the food and, one by one, the rest of the group start to get up and busy themselves around the house with trivial things: stretches (Beau does them very loudly), counting trinkets (Nott doesn’t actually need to do that), sword polishing (no one dares to question Yasha). Eventually, there’s no excuse, no postponing it anymore. They need the answer.

*

As they walk through the street, Caleb at the front to guide them with his perfect memory, they see a few people out and about, already busy. The town is not lively, by any means, but everything seems efficient, functional. It’s reminiscent of nights on the Ball Eater, when the ship kept going, manned only by a skeleton crew, the bare bones of the whole operation.

They stop at one of the entrances to the cornucopia, where the smell of burnt wood is the strongest, though only Fjord and Nott seem to realize that, unsure of where else to go and what else to do.

Ozra arrives just a few minutes later, joined by one of the women from yesterday, her hair up in a high ponytail that seems very characteristic, her face set on a severe scowl.

“Um. Hi.” Beau says because of course she does. Fjord takes a deep breath.

“Good morning.” Their eyes flit around all of them before resting on Fjord. “We’ve reached a decision. You’ll get a guide. And a map.”

They don’t get to sigh in relief because the woman continues, her chin jutting forward to indicate Caleb and Fjord. “But you and you stay here.”

Beau, Jester, and Nott gasp together. “As insurance.” Ozra completes, before they can say anything.

“As  _ hostages _ , you mean.” Beau says, her face all twisted up and soured.

“If that’s how you want to see it.” The woman shrugs, answering Beau in a matching tone.

Fjord turns his head to Caleb, watches the man for just a moment. He doesn’t seem surprised; resigned, more like. As if he had expected this but was hoping it wouldn’t happen. He turns to Fjord, too, stares at him like he’s the one who gets to make the decision, he’s the one who gets to  _ choose _ (like  _ he’s _ the leader). Fjord forces his gaze away, looks at Ozra, and says, “Fine.”

Beau, Jester, and Nott turn to him. Nott looks like she’s just been betrayed. Jester frowns, clearly worried. Beau just stares at him, the same way Caleb does most of the time ( _ all _ of the time); he tries not to be unsettled by the resemblance. “But that’s not enough.” He makes a head motion in Caleb’s direction, “He gets lessons with whatever wisefolk you have here. And I want something too.”  _ That will  _ not _ be discussed in front of everyone _ , he doesn’t say.

The woman by Ozra’s side exhales heavily, stares holes into the side of their head but they don’t seem bothered. They just keep looking at Fjord. Then, finally, a nod. “Deal.”

Fjord does not let his shoulders sag. He stretches his right hand forward. “Shake on it.”

Ozra does, with a slightly confused glint in their eyes. Their hands are big and worn, their grip strong. Fjord does not attempt to overcompensate. The one woman walks away after sounding out a barely compressed huff.

“There we go.” Caduceus says, and that’s that.

*

The whole thing is almost called off when they realize the whole operation will take up to a whole month, two weeks to go and two weeks to come back. But it’s not like they can give up on going there and going on their own would just take longer. It’s a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation but it’s what they have.

The rest of the morning is spent gathering supplies, making sure they have enough rations, that the clothes they have are thick enough and can sustain mountain weather, that they’ll actually be able to make camp without Caleb.

By midday, they are all standing at the north entrance to the settlement, pretty much ready to go.

Funnily enough, Dizro is the one who will be heir guide - her annoyed expression seems to be a permanent fixture, at least around The Mighty Nein. She stands a few paces away, her arms crossed, not exactly letting them take their time but not rushing them either.

Caleb kneels beside Nott, his hand heavy and big on her shoulder. “If  _ anything _ goes wrong, have Jester message me and I’ll be there in six seconds. Understand?”

Nott nods. “If anything happens to you, I’ll murder Fjord.”

The corner of Caleb’s mouth bends down then up. He sets his hand on Nott’s head, ruffles her hair. “And if anything happens to Fjord?” He rises up to his full height, knees cracking.

“Dunno. Jester will probably kill you then.”

“And you’ll let her?”

“Maybe. Depends.”

“ _ Ja _ , sure.” He jostles her shoulder just a bit before letting her walk off to where the moorbounders are, Jannik licking his siblings’ faces, almost marking them for the trip.

“Beauregard.”

She hums, steps a bit closer.

“Are you going to do with her what you did with the dwarf?” He says quietly, makes a tiny half-motion to indicate Dizro. Beau stares at him, not understanding. He sighs. “Are you going to fuck the orc lady, Beauregard?”

Beau, very uncharacteristically, sputters. “No!” Then recovers. “I mean, I don’t know. You don’t really know that kind of thing in advance.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

Beau’s gaze sharpens and she crosses her arms. “Is this your way of telling me I should get some?”

He lets his eyes wander away, half-shrugs as if saying, all innocent-like,  _ who’s to say? _   “I was only asking.” Then, he looks back at her, serious again. “Take care, Beauregard.”

She looks back, faces him head-on, the same way she faces everything else in life. “Yeah. You too.”

“ _ Ja _ , okay.”

*

Fjord tries to be reassured by how calm everyone seems, how neatly organized everything is, different from what he’d ever expected when coming to this town but he can only feel the numbness that dread brings.

“You know,” Caduceus says, sounding almost absent. “This went better than I expected.”

Fjord tries to not be startled by that. “How so?”

“We got what we wanted and we are helping others. Seems good to me.”

Fjord stops himself from saying  _ at what cost? _ because pessimism isn’t really his thing. “Sure, Caddy.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Fjord. The wind has been blowing this way for a while now. Everything will be alright.” He pats Fjord’s shoulder, a bit of fungi getting dusted off him, then walks over to Clarabelle and mounts her, unbothered. Fjord is forever astonished by the whole of Caduceus.

The six of them mount Yarnball and Clarabelle, their weight as close to evenly distributed as possible, which means not really even at all.

Just as the moorbounders are leaving his sight and he hears the wet, disgusting noises of Jannik licking the side of Caleb’s face, Ozra comes up behind them, a young half-orc by their side, his rumpled hair on a low ponytail, keeping it all away from his face.

“This is Drish. He’s the one responsible for construction work. You,” And they set their eyes on Caleb. “Are going to help with well-digging.” They pat-shove Drish in Caleb’s direction.

He makes a head motion and Caleb immediately goes which Fjord chooses to believe was a planned move and not instinct. Fjord isn’t sure what he’d think, what he’d do with himself if that was all just instinct. Jannik trails behind them, comically.

Ozra stares at him while he stares at Caleb. When he turns his head back, they squint at him and say, “You and I have things to discuss.” And starts walking. Fjord forces himself to not trail behind them, walks by their side, and tries not to look like he’s rushing too much (even though their height difference makes keeping up practically impossible).

The house they enter looks the exact same as all the others, if only a bit on the larger side (maybe to accommodate its resident’s bigger size?). He realizes, only a few moments after coming in, that this is Ozra’s actual residence, not just a place to have meetings at. The chair by the hearth, a heavy blanket resting on the seat; the stuffed animals lining the floor – this is a home. Fjord isn’t sure why he’s so surprised.

“You have a kid?”

Ozra doesn’t answer, just sits down by the kitchen table, away from all the familiarity, and stares at him. Fjord sits down as well. “What do you want?”

“I already said, I…” Ozra squints at him, like they are trying to say  _ don’t be daft _ , without actually sounding it out. Fjord steels himself. “You must have someone here that has  _ some  _ knowledge of the arcane. Every place like this does. I want lessons for the wizard.”

He’s speaking with certainty but it’s mostly all bluster, like most things regarding him are. Fjord has never been to places like these, small countryside communities that are closed off to the rest of the world. But he has heard stories from sailors, from Vandren himself, and he can’t help but believe them, think that they are rooted in some truth.

“Wisefolk are very valued here. And everywhere. Very well-protected.” And Fjord sees it for the threat it is.

“I could just take him right now and leave. No well for you. Dizro wouldn’t even know until she got back.”

“Your wizard will have his lessons. I’m just warning you.”

“Sure.”

Then they lean in, not dangerous at all, but extremely poignant, “What do  _ you _ want?”

“I…” Fjord doesn’t know why he didn’t prepare himself for this. He never prepares himself for anything, all decisions powered by impulse alone; it’s a problem (it’s  _ his _ thing and he wishes it wasn’t). “I doubt there isn’t anyone here who’s trained at formal fighting. I want lessons.”  _ I  _ will  _ have lessons. _

Ozra tilts their head, like Fjord has finally said something they didn’t expect. “I can train you, if you are so inclined.”

Fjord stares at them. Ozra stares back. So he says, “Sure. Why not?”

*

Drish guides them through the east side of town, Jannik trudging behind them, as quietly as he can (which means not quietly at all), until they pass by their current quarters and he settles into a giant loaf by the house.

Drish continues to walk until they’re out of the town and entering the forest. Caleb tries not to be too suspicious, to take the deal that’s just been made at face value, in good faith, but he can’t – that’s not him, has never been him. He prepares a spell intended to stun and hopes he won’t have to use it.

He raises his head when Drish rumbles at him, a similar sound to the one he’s heard Fjord make so many times. He’d always thought that was a Fjord thing, not an orc thing. He doesn’t know why that’s so surprising.

“We will not be able to feed your beast.” Drish says.

“He hunts.”

Drish hums, not entirely sure but not too doubtful either. They spend the rest of the way in silence.

The forest isn’t any lusher here, still no green in sight, the trees are still leafless and the ground is still creaky and dry. The only thing it has going for it is that the snowfall has stopped but that may very well be temporary, circumstantial.

This place isn’t like anything Caleb has ever seen before (not that he has seen much). The Empire’s hills are always rich and plentiful, even during the dry seasons. The Dynasty is dreary and wet but everything is always fresh and endlessly growing. The Greying Wildlands are dry and cold and dead and very much wild (Caleb really thought that being so up north would make them reminiscent of the Zemni Fields – there’s nothing further from it).

Caleb can see a gathering of people from several paces away, what with the emptiness of this forest. He turns his head to Drish. “Why so far away?” They are not that deep into the forest but, as far as he knows, wells tend to be way closer to the town.

“This is the closest water bed. The river we get our water from is even further away.”

Caleb takes that in. “And the river freezes during the winter.”

Drish half-nods, amenable. “Yes.”

The half dozen orcs get up when the two of them arrive, glance at Caleb, almost dismissively, and then stare at Drish. Caleb isn’t even really offended by that

“This is the mage Ozra told us about.” Drish says.

They all stare at him. “I’m Caleb.” They continue to stare at him. He summons the cat paw, has it hover by his side. Glances nervously between them and Drish. “So. Where do I start?”

*

The problem with building this well, besides the fact that the water bed seems to be very deep down, is that it has to be large, it has to be very big. The thing is supposed to supply the whole settlement through all of winter. That means that things have to be perfectly measured and that nothing can go wrong. Caleb spends more time adjusting the things he does than actually doing anything. They all do, really.

He still staggers into town all dirtied up and tired, looking very similar to what he was when he first met The Nein. Drish is leading him to a place where he can wash himself, be presentable, when he sees someone almost frantically chopping wood. Not just someone –  _ Fjord _ almost angrily chopping wood.

He stops following Drish and approaches Fjord slowly, careful so he doesn’t get hit (Fjord isn’t particularly strong and probably not very good at using axes as a weapon but Caleb could be killed by a very persistent duck, so he’s not going to risk it).

He’s a few steps away from the half-orc when he says, “Fjord.” No response. “Fjord!”

Fjord stops, a log neatly split in half, the axe stuck on the log that was serving as a cutting board. He looks up. “Oh, Caleb.”

“ _ Hallo _ .” Fjord isn’t wearing any armor, which is unusual for him. He’s dripping sweat, even in the cold, and his hair is frizzing up in a way that Caleb has never seen happen before. “What are you doing?”

“Chopping wood.” Fjord shrugs, keeps looking at Caleb, nonchalant.  _ Too _ nonchalant.

“Yes, I can see that.  _ Why  _ are you chopping wood?”

Fjord blinks. “Y’know, just trying to make myself useful. Same way you are.”

Caleb squints at him and doesn’t say he was forced into helping because Fjord  _ knows _ that. He isn’t stupid. “You know I can just  _ make _ fire, right?”

“Well, yeah, but you can’t do that for  _ everyone _ .”

“I  _ can _ , actually.”

“Oh. I, uh, did not know that.” He clears his throat and stares at the logs for a moment. Caleb stares at him. “Well, they’re chopped now.” Caleb continues to stare at him. Fjord sighs. “Why don’t you just go do whatever you were going to do and we’ll talk later, okay?”

The wizard hums and walks away without saying anything. Behind him, Fjord goes back to chopping wood.

*

Fjord only walks back to the house after the sun has dipped down the horizon, the sky now a cross between soft yellow and purple-black. He has washed up at the communal baths but still feels clammy, dirty. All he wants to do is get to a bed, any bed, and pass out.

He doesn’t know why he thought asking for training at this foreign place was a good idea, why he’d imagined he’d actually get any. He hadn’t been excited, exactly, but focused on proving himself. And then Ozra had said he should cut some logs, and that was that. Fjord didn’t complain (not like he had anything better to do, anyway) but the disappointment was like a bucket of ice-cold water over his head.

He staggers towards the house, sees Jannik licking his front paws, and wonders when, exactly, the animal will go into the woods to hunt. He almost barfs when he enters the house and the strong smell of incense fills his nostrils.

Fjord huffs, closes the front door and knocks the one to the room where all the smoke is coming from (now it is undeniably Caleb’s room). “Hey Caleb, can you air out the house before you start using incense around here?”

There’s a beat of silence and the door opens and out comes cat-Frumpkin, who just sits there and stares at Fjord. He takes three steps back. “Hey, Caleb? About airing out the house?” He calls back to the bedroom.

Caleb only emerges a moment later and he doesn’t respond because why would he. The wizard just picks up the cat and sets the animal on his shoulder. Fjord splutters immediately, trying, all at once, to get away from Frumpkin but not jostle him to the ground.

“Caleb-!”

Caleb puts his hand on the side of Fjord’s head, kind but firm. “Calm down, Fjord. Take a deep breath in.”

Fjord most definitely does not take a deep breath in.

“Go on.” Caleb says, not unkindly, and just waits for him.

Fjord lets his shoulders drop. He takes one deep breath. Frumpkin rubs his head against his jawline. Fjord lets himself breathe normally. Frumpkin butts his head against his cheek. Nothing happens.

“Oh.”

“That feat took a lot of incense.”

“Oh.” So Caleb did this for his comfort? “So Frumpkin will be like this for a while?” Fjord starts scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“Managed to save a bit in case we need him as a vulture soon.” He pats Frumpkin’s head. The cat meows at him. “You may have him for a while.”

“Oh, I may?”

“ _ Ja _ . You’ve never had a cat before, right? Because of your allergies?”

“Right.” Frumpkin starts moving around his shoulders. Fjord’s hands come up and hover, trying to make sure the tiny creature won’t lose balance. Frumpkin doesn’t seem to be paying either of them any mind now.

“Well, there you go.”

“I…This is…Thank you, Caleb.”

Caleb nods. “Please bring me a bowl of food if you go to the communal dinner,  _ ja _ ?”

Fjord is so startled by the sudden topic change, he only nods. Caleb’s door closes before he can say anything.

*

Fjord does go to the communal dinner, if only for Caleb’s sake. Like most things in Boroftkrah, it’s mellow and incredibly functional. Different from any other reunion he’s seen happen in this town, though, it has a friendly atmosphere.

The campfire paints everything and everyone in warm, vibrant tones. The food is good and filling, if not particularly special. The hustle-bustle of people talking is so familiar, it makes him relax in a way he hasn’t in many days. It feels good, to be around warm bodies again, instead of watching a barren landscape from inside a cart.

Frumpkin stays on his shoulders through all of the communal meal, sometimes hiding his little face away against Fjord’s neck, sometimes staring (he does get a few weird looks for that, people that are unsure of where exactly the animal came from; no one asks him anything, though).

Fjord makes sure to bring Caleb a bowl of food, one of the smaller ones, since he knows that the wizard doesn’t eat much and will probably let his food go cold before scarfing it down in a rush.

Jannik is gone when he arrives and the house is dark, no light slipping through the crack of Caleb’s door. He knocks on it, “Food has arrived.” Sets the ceramic bowl outside of it when there’s no response.

Frumpkin keeps him company through the whole evening, perching his shoulders when he polishes his armor, and burrowing into his lap when he tends to his claws. Fjord keeps getting distracted, unused to having the little thing around him, a tail always on his peripheral vision.

When he’s finally set up to go to sleep, Frumpkin sets his little body on his chest, warm and heavy. It’s a bit easier to drift off like that.

*

He’s rudely awoken by loud and insistent bangs on the door to the house. Frumpkin is loudly meowing at his bedroom door, either because he wants to be let out or because he’s trying to wake Fjord up.

Fjord grumbles to himself and gets up, squinting at the soft light filtering in through the window. The bowl he left by Caleb’s door is now half-eaten and probably very cold, but Frumpkin doesn’t seem to mind, stopping to nibble at it.

He opens the front door. Ozra stands before him, serious, with their arms crossed. Fjord stares at them. They stare at him. He doesn’t even feel embarrassed about his rumpled state, more grumpy about being woken up than awkward about being caught off guard.

“Good mornin’.”

Ozra nods. “Make yourself appropriate and grab your wizard."

Fjord closes the door without answering them, detached.

He changes his clothes, runs his hands through his hair a few times, ponders over wearing armor and ultimately decides against it. Finally, he trudges to Caleb’s door and knocks. No answer. He opens the door, as softly as possible.

The room is dark and somehow stuffy (Fjord doesn’t know that’s possible; he needed several blankets to be able to sleep last night). Caleb is still on the bed, asleep. Fjord is not used to that. Fjord isn’t used to being the one who wakes him up either.

He gets close, whisper-shouts, “Caleb. Caleb!” No response. He lightly sets his hand on the wizard’s shoulder and shakes it. Caleb immediately opens his eyes, so quick that it’s eerie. Weirdly, he looks more exhausted now than he did yesterday.

“Time to wake up.”

“Okay.” He says, and sits up, slow but sure, stretching a bit, his joints popping loudly.

“Went to sleep late last night?”

“I’ve been in bed since you first left,  _ freund _ .”

“Oh.” Fjord doesn’t know what to do with that.

Caleb uses a leather strip to tie his hair up, the high ponytail ending up messy and disheveled. He gets up, picks up his coat and heads to the door.

“You’re ready?”

“It doesn’t take much for me to get ready, Fjord.”

Fjord nods, half agreeing.

*

Ozra is still waiting for them outside, not looking bothered at all by how long they’ve taken to get ready. Caleb stops when he spots Jannik resting by the house, his snout wet and bloody, and his paws muddy. The wizard pets the moorbounder, starts muttering to the animal in Zemnian.

Fjord stops beside Ozra. “We are ready for…whatever.”

They hum, and continue to stare at Caleb.

“What are we going to do, exactly?”

Ozra doesn’t answer, waits for Caleb to join them.

“ _ Hallo _ .” He says.

Ozra nods at him and starts guiding them through the town.

To Fjord, it almost feels like the place hasn’t woken up yet; no fires being stoked, no smoke in the air, only a few people out and about. The morning has been overtaken by the fog and stray rays of sun, it seems.

Ozra leads them to the west side of the town, a space they haven’t been in before. He doesn’t see anything special about it, the houses looking the same, the set up all the same. They stop at small hut almost at the edge of town.

There’s a rocking chair outside and the front door is just a tiny bit open. Ozra turns and addresses Caleb directly, “These are your lessons. Don’t do anything to stoke an entire town’s sense of retribution.”

“Understood. The well digging…?”

“Drish will come to get you later.”

“Okay.” Caleb looks at Fjord in a way the half-orc can’t quite decipher and then enters the house without saying anything else.

“What about me?” He says after a moment, turning his head to look at Ozra. “What did I get up for?”

Ozra squints at him. “You’re helping me move supplies.” They say and walk off.

Fjord doesn’t sigh (not loudly, anyway) but he does let his shoulders sag.

*

Surprisingly, the most tiring about the task isn’t  _ carrying _ the supplies, but  _ gathering _ them. They have to make rounds through the whole settlement to actually get them from people’s houses, from the ones responsible for organizing them.

And just about  _ everyone _ has something to say Ozra. Be it casual reports, serious complaints or simple small talk, most people try to strike a conversation. The hardships of being the town’s warden, he guesses.

The thing is: he has to suffer through it, in silence, his arms shaking with the heavy (heavy for him, anyway; Ozra doesn’t seem bothered) weight of the supplies, shuffling his weight every now and then, and struggling to focus on the menial conversations happening in front of him. It’s not that he really minds – this isn’t any different from the boat work he used to do; it’s more that it feels like it isn’t what he signed up for. Except he doesn’t really know what he signed up for, does he? Classic Fjord.

Most things go to the cornucopia, a few pointy sacks get chucked into the shack where the supplies for the hunting parties stay, and some get stored close to where the communal dinner happens.

The furs, though, and the handmade blankets and the ponchos get distributed around town, in accordance with everyone’s needs. The house with the two elderly women, their braided hair incredibly long and all white, one of them missing her tusks, get three thick blankets. The house he hears baby cries coming from gets two heavy blankets and several tiny knitted clothes (Fjord has to stop himself from stretching his neck to peek inside the house, search for the grey-green child).

Once they’re done, Ozra just points him back towards the logs without saying anything. Fjord huffs, disgruntled, and stops himself from asking how much wood can a town possibly need, not wanting to sound bratty  _ or _ stupid.

*

He stops chopping wood only slightly earlier than yesterday, though he manages to cut down the same amount of logs he did the previous day; an achievement. The soft pink color of the sky reminds him of Caduceus hair and the cold wind picking up through the town makes him shiver.

His wash-up at the communal baths makes him feel clean enough but doesn’t succeed in warming him any. The longer he spends in this place, the more he wants to shrivel up and die, it seems. It’s the only thing this place is good for: freezing things over.

Someone stops him as soon as he exits the bathhouse, a hand on his shoulder. He recognizes the person as the half-orc responsible for well construction, only slightly bigger than him, his blue eyes and mussed dark hair striking.

“Yes…?” Fjord can’t remember his name.

He’s carrying a blanket and a poncho, which he promptly shoves into Fjord’s arms. “For your human.” He says and immediately walks off.

Fjord doesn’t know what he’s more startled by: the very specific kindness or having Caleb be named  _ his _ human. He refuses to admit he feels weird about it.

Jannik is scratching his back on the house, and he’s honestly surprised the place is still standing, what with the way the moorbounder is rubbing himself almost obsessively.

Thankfully, the house isn’t filled with incense when he goes in this time. He does smell something mint-fresh that he can’t quite place. Frumpkin greets him at the front door, rubbing his little body on Fjord’s ankles.

He finds Caleb at the kitchen table, scribing things into his book, his enchanted ink pot resting open by his hand. Fjord feels a wave of satisfaction surge through him with the knowledge that  _ he _ managed to get Caleb some new material to work with.

“Hey, Caleb.” The wizard doesn’t answer, just keeps writing. Fjord doesn’t know what he was expecting. “This is for you.” He says, setting the blanket on the table, a good distance away from the ink pot.

Caleb only spares a glance at it, doesn’t stop his scribing. “Don’t need it.”

Fjord looks at him, stops shuffling in the chair he was settling into, opposite of Caleb. “What?”

“Don’t need it. You can keep it. I can imagine how cold you get.”

A startled chuckle leaves him, half-embarrassed, half-lost. “That’s mighty kind of you, Caleb, but… No offense, but you’re basically skin and bones. This would be good for you.”

Caleb finally looks up at him then, his stare as unsettling as ever, one of his eyebrows dipping down in slight annoyance. “I run hot, Fjord. I don’t need it. Keep it for yourself.”

Fjord doesn’t let his gaze drift away, still half-unnerved, half-frustrated. “How about this: you take the poncho, I’ll take the blanket and we’ll keep it at that.”

Caleb stares for a moment longer before shrugging and going back to his book. Fjord settles again, watches as Frumpkin leaps up to scratch at the blanket. Smiles a bit when the cat decides to nibble on his fingers.

They stay like that for a while, the  _ scritch-scritch _ of Caleb’s focused and frantic writing, Fjord entertaining Frumpkin as best as he can, his tail forming little curls in the air. The fresh smell is stronger closer to Caleb, herbal and minty and clear.

He doesn’t know how to ask the wizard if he’s got some mint leaves lying around without sounding crazy so he doesn’t, just takes care so he’s not sniffling too loudly.

When the sky gets dark enough that no one without dark vision can possibly see without strain, Fjord gets up, lights a few candles, and doesn’t sit down again.

“You gonna join me for dinner today?”

“ _ Nein _ . But please bring me a bowl.”

“Alright.”

Frumpkin rushes past him when he makes his way to the front door and meows loudly when he opens it up, demanding. Fjord sighs, bends down and picks him up. Sets the cat on his shoulder and leaves.

*

He goes back with a small bowl in his hand, finds Jannik gone and the house completely dark. He can’t see any light coming from Caleb’s room so he sets the bowl by the door, same as yesterday. He can feel routine forming.

When he goes back to the kitchen to grab the new blanket before bedding down, he finds the poncho already gone.

*

Caleb wakes up to Fjord shaking his shoulder, his face close, and the amber of his eyes bright in the near dark. It’s only as early as it was yesterday, from what Caleb can tell (from what his brain tells him, at least), but Fjord isn’t clothed and ready for the day.

“ _ Hallo _ , Fjord.”

“Hey Caleb. Thought I’d give you a longer time to wake up before anyone comes knocking at our door. Maybe eat something…?”

Caleb finally sits up. “ _ Ja _ , sure.”

Fjord finally backs away towards the door and, after another look at him, leaves, presumably to get ready.

Caleb gets up, ties his hair up, puts his coat on and, after one moment of deliberation, pulls the poncho over it, if only to comfort Fjord. It’s warm, which he doesn’t really need, and dark colored, which he appreciates.

He’s halfway through the bowl of food Fjord left for him last night, a few pieces of meat cornered on the plate for Frumpkin, when the half-orc comes out of his bedroom, stops and stares at Caleb and his new poncho. Caleb quirks one eyebrow up.

“Lookin’ good.” Fjord says because of course he does.

“ _ Danke _ .” He says and goes back to eating.

“Aren’t you gonna…?” Fjord says and makes a gesture to his own head.

“What?”

“Fix your hair, I guess.”

Caleb’s hair is currently looking very much like a nest. He hasn’t undone any of the braids Jester did almost a week ago. His recent liking to doing his hair up doesn't help any, just further messes it up.

Caleb just stares at him. “It is fixed.”

_ Of course it is _ , Fjord thinks. “Okay.”

“Thank you for the food.”

“No problem.”

Caleb takes a few more bites before he sets the bowl down so Frumpkin can have a go at it. They stand, side by side, and watch the cat eat for a few moments.

“Sure you don’t want to join me on the communal dinners? You’d manage to eat some warm food, for once.”

“I will, eventually. I’ve just been tired, that's all.”

“I noticed.” Fjord turns his head, looks at Caleb as he stares at Frumpkin. “Hey, are you okay?”

“ _ Ja _ , fine.” Caleb says, not  _ too _ defensive. “I’m just…like this.” Fjord doesn’t know what that means. Caleb doesn’t look back at him.

Fjord decides not to push it. For now.

*

Caleb receives no warnings from Ozra before entering the house this time. He says no parting words to Fjord, just sends him a significant look that the half-orc does not return, He doesn’t know why he expects any different, honestly.

He closes the door behind him when he enters and immediately takes his boots off, tucking his ripped socks into them as modestly as possible. He’s good at learning lessons and he doesn’t like being told off as sharply as he was yesterday (or getting told off at all, really); he’s not going to make the same mistake twice.

The house looks the same as it did yesterday: as small as his own current quarter, the same tapestries hanging from the walls, the same rug on the floor, the wood creaking at the exact same places. It’s lived in. It reminds him of the Xhorhaus in a way. Or what the Xhorhaus could be, at least. A homely place.

He finds Yaga outside the back of the house, the white wool blanket around her shoulders a sharp contrast with her dark brown skin. Her greying locs are done up in a high bun much neater than his and she’s nursing a cup of…  _ something _ .

He doesn’t call out her name, feels weird using it. It’d only been given to him after a series of tests proving that he’s not a witch. He doesn’t begrudge her for it but it’s still a lot (there were a few old people exactly like that back in Blumenthal - his mother had said they were the smart ones).

Yaga raises her eyebrows when she spots him, stares at his poncho.

Caleb shrugs. “It was a gift.”

She shrugs, too, and goes back to sipping from her mug. Caleb joins her on the grass, lets his feet feel the dewiness, gropes the ground, lets his fingernails get dirty.

Yaga snorts. “You don’t have to be so obvious about it.”

Caleb goes on, unbothered. “I’m just trying to do what you told me.”

She rolls her eyes. “And the recipe?”

He sinks his fingertips into the ground, acknowledges the wet earth. “It was fine. I don’t think I managed to get it right. The smell was too strong.”

“Well, that’s your own fault.”

Caleb hums in agreement.

They stay like that until she finally tops off whatever is in the mug. She says, getting up and heading towards the house, “You want to make tea?”

Which means he’s probably sharing with her if he does make some.

“I just ate.”

Yaga enters the house and comes back a moment later, sans cup. “Let’s go, then.” She says and walks off towards the forest.

There’s nothing special about what she’s teaching him, not even anything inherently arcane about it. They spend most of their time identifying, inspecting and cataloging plants, learning how they react with each other and why. If nothing else, it’s a very good way to gather spell components.

It does make him view the woods around them and all of the Greying Wildlands, really, differently. The direct connection between his feet and the land makes everything feel alive instead of dry and cracked. Up close, the tree bark is blue and healthy, with soft moss growing over it.

On foot and up close, instead of inside a near high-speed cart, the forest seems a lot bigger and a lot more natural.  _ Alive _ . He sees the birds living inside the tree trunks, the insects skittering about. It makes the whole place feel more real, like he’s finally touched the essence of it.

They eventually go back to the house and Yaga has him go through the healing ointment recipe again to see if he can get it right. He measures everything and mixes the ingredients as orderly as he can. The result still smells too strong.

She sniffs the pot the mixture is in then looks at the ingredients. Huffs at them, then huffs at him. “You’ve been stupid.”

Caleb frowns. “I’m sure I measured everything correct-”

“It’s not about measurements, fool. It’s about knowing how one element will react to another. Nature is not so predictable.”

Caleb continues to frown, watching as Yaga takes the pot from his hand, and dips a watery paste into the mixture. The smell sours before it settles into something neutral.

“Well, how will I know, then?”

Yaga shrugs. “Instinct. Practice.”

Caleb huffs at that.

Drish only comes to get him a bit after midday, after Caleb’s mouth and fingertips have been stained purple-red with sweet berry juice. There are even a few stains on his new poncho; thankfully, Drish doesn’t seem to notice.

*

Only today do they start properly well-digging, after days of deliberation and countless readjustments. And even then, progress isn’t steady and nothing happens quickly.

After every few feet of digging with the cat’s paw, he has to stop so the workers can stonewall the interior, line everything up with stone to avoid infiltration or cave-ins. He even has to help a few times, through arcane means, since his physical prowess doesn’t really amount to much.

They spend a longer period inside the forest this time, longer than any of the previous days, until they are all dirty and sweaty, all tired. The sky is mostly dark when Drish starts leading them back to the town.

Back when the role of well-digger had first been assigned to him, Caleb wasn’t sure what the dynamic between him and the orcs would be like. He wasn’t paranoid enough to think they’d be aggressive (only Fjord is delusional enough to believe something like that, it seems) but wariness is inherent to him. They’d made a deal but he knows terms can always be stretched, that no one, really, is above lying to get what they want.

It’s pleasantly surprising, however, to find out that the orcs pretty much.... fret over him. Well, that isn’t exactly true: mostly they ignore him, very much focused on the task at hand, entirely dedicated to it. When otherwise unoccupied, though, and confronted with Caleb’s presence, they are incredibly prone to smothering. In the past few days, he’s been questioned over why he’s so skinny, has he been eating enough, is he warm enough. It’s annoying to deal with but it settles his stomach.

They surround him on the walk back, keeping a slower pace so he isn’t allowed to lag behind. He hates not being the last one on the walking order but it’s an annoyance he can make peace with. Anli and Inla, twins with honey-brown hair and hazel eyes, walk along on either side of him. Caleb pretends he doesn’t notice them sneaking glances at each other and at him for the first half of the journey.

“So, Caleb.” Inla finally says.

Caleb hums at him. Inla does not elaborate. Anli huffs at her twin, then says, “So, Caleb, what’s Fjord like?”

The question throws him off. He looks up at Anli, her expression determined but still very much innocent. He notices, for the first time, how young the twins are, younger than him, younger than Drish, probably.

“He’s nice. A very charming man. He’s… good.”

She rolls her eyes, turns her head away from him.

Inla huffs then and says, “Yeah but like, what can he  _ do _ ?”

Caleb turns his head to him, confused, brows furrowed. “He’s a very talented man. He knows a bit of arcane as well and-”

Anli huffs this time, and it sounds almost like a groan. Inla huffs back at her before looking at Caleb again, “No, like, what can he give to y-”

It’s then that Zaal brushes past Inla, bumping into him; she scowls at the younger man and says, “Don’t assume things about people you don’t know.”

Inla glances away. Anli huffs again.

There’s a pause.

Zaal nudges his side. “Have you been eating, boy?”

“ _Ja_ , I have.”

“Funny how I’ve never seen you do it, then.”

“When are you going to eat with us, Caleb?” Anli asks, walking backwards in front of him.

“We’d love to see you at the communal dinner.” Her brother says.

“Oh, I don’t know…” Caleb says and they spend the rest of the walk moaning at him, asking for his company.

He’s not fooled by any of it, knows that they just want to be entertained by the new, shiny, human, magic toy but it’s endearing all the same. Reminds him of Jester a little bit.

*

There are no mirrors at the communal washrooms. There are no mirrors anywhere in Boroftkrah, really, not that he’s noticed anyway. Caleb doesn’t mind - he can’t stand the sight of his own face most of the time; what that means, however, is that his beard has been steadily growing, long enough now to be noticeable, obvious even in the wash basin reflection.

He wonders, as he’s leaving the bathhouse, how he will deal with that. Request a mirror? (Too demanding.) Ask someone else to do it? (Too risky.) Grow it out? (That’d be just fine, actually.)

Someone bumps into him just a few steps away from the washrooms. No, not someone -  _ Fjord _ . Fjord with blood on his hands. On his tunic. On his face?

He panics. Grabs Fjord’s shoulders. “Fjord-! What happened? I-” Is midway through casting expeditious retreat when the half-orc stops him, gathers his hands in his, shakes him.

“Caleb, it’s- I’m fine. I was helping with the meat. Animal meat.”

He takes a deep breath. Stares at Fjord. “I- Meat?”

“Yeah. The hunting party brought in some fresh meat.”

“Oh.” Caleb pulls his hands away. Fjord lets him go. “That’s what you did today?”

Fjord’s face does a funny thing that he can’t decipher before settling again, almost sheepish. “Yeah, I- Uh. I helped with carrying it in and preparing it. Cutting it.” And he raises his hands, shows off the blood.

“Oh.”

“Was going to wash up, in fact.”

“Oh! Yes, I’m sorry, friend. Let me get out of your way.”

He watches as Fjord enters the communal washrooms without looking back.

*

A sailor’s life is all about routine. It’s about waking up at the crack of dawn to man the ship, about pulling ropes and carrying barrels, telling the same ol' jokes to the same ol' people. That’s all that Fjord’s life had been for a very long time, until the shipwreck happened. Until magic happened. Until his life begun again, completely different.

He’d almost forgotten what it’s like to have that steadiness, that ordinariness, to everything you do. How easy it is to fall into a routine and not strive for more. The insignificance of it all, the mediocrity - a spectrum from his past life, someone he doesn’t want to be anymore.

He’s been doing the same stuff for almost a week now, with little to no variation: wood chopping, meat cutting, supply moving. Nothing special. Things that anybody else could do. Definitely not the training he asked for. He’s held off on complaining, demanding answers for fear of sounding ungrateful of the shelter and food that’s been provided. Caleb’s lessons, a guide through the mountains - he knows all of that is important. He just wants to cash in on the deal he’s made.

In the mid-morning of the eighth day, after Fjord has helped move a few wooden structures from one side of town to the other, he sees Ozra, heading down the opposite direction he’s been moving towards all day. He doesn’t hesitate: he follows them. There’s more work to be had but surely it can wait - it will  _ have _ to wait.

They don’t stop walking when he calls for them, don’t slow their pace when he starts walking by their side.

“Ozra.”

They glance at him.

“I thought we had a deal. If you did not wish to partake in it, you should’ve said so instead of making a fool out of me.”

“Is your wizard not getting his lessons? Is Dizro not guiding the rest of your people through the mountains?”

“That is not the agreement I’m talking about and you know it.”

Ozra remains unfazed. “I’ve upheld all of my responsibilities."

Fjord feels the cold rush of anger spread over him, take hold of his bones, the cold thing that makes his sharp and deadly. That makes him  _ mean _ . “And so have I. Caleb has been building a well for water he will never get to drink while I’ve been slaving around this miserable town like some beast of burden. There’s nothing stopping me from taking what I need, more than I need, and leaving this sorry place. I could-”

Ozra strikes out, their arm raising to hit him over the head. He catches their wrist, breathes heavily while staring at them. Ozra still seems unbothered.

“You were not this strong when you got first here. That’s what a week of  _ miserable work _ will do to you.” They pat his torso with their other hand. “You need core strength to be a fighter.”

Fjord doesn’t answer, just shoves away the arm he still had a grip on and starts walking away.

Ozra calls out behind him, “Take the day off. We’ll talk next morning.”

*

Ever since they started getting back to the settlement later in the day because of the dedication and time well-digging demands, Caleb spares a moment to watch the sky before entering the house. Wait and observe as it goes from navy blue to midnight dark, the stars starting to blink at him after a while, so bright and so far away. It’s a good habit to have, seeing what’s above you. The constellations are all the same, if only slightly off-center.

The kitchen is dark when he finally enters the house, which is weird, but not too unsettling when he sees the light filtering from the crack below Fjord’s door. It’s not at all the routine they’ve built since first coming to Boroftkrah but Caleb is not at all in the business of demanding things from Fjord.

He simply lights a few candles, sits at the kitchen table and focuses on his botanical studies, drawing the plants Yaga pointed out to him that morning, their grey-green and grey-blue tones, the rough texture of the tree’s bark, which animals eat which plants, the whole ecosystem that surrounds this town, the uniqueness and subtle strangeness of it, like everything is just a few inches to the left of what's normal.

He even dares to sketch a few of the flowers that littered the Zemni Fields and he still remembers from childhood, the little cornflower blue ones that looked like bells and the lavender ones he’d seen in his mother’s hair on occasion. It hurts him, remembering, but it’s nice to know that the memory is still there. It’s no less than he deserves, anyway.

By the time he’s done for the day, it’s already past the time Fjord normally goes out to get dinner. His bedroom is still lit which means he’s not sleeping (probably).

Caleb knocks. No response. He says to the door, quiet enough that the half-orc won’t be disturbed if he’s already asleep, “Fjord, I was wondering if you’ll still go to the communal dinner?”

There’s a pause. Then, “Don’t feel really up for it tonight, Caleb. Sorry.”

Caleb backs away from the door. “Understood, friend.”

*

He harbors no hopes of going to sleep tonight, knows in his bones that he won’t be able to. Ever since first storming off, his mind alternates between berating himself (for being so naive, for getting played  _ again _ , for not being better, for not doing what’s expected of him) and cursing Ozra (for being such a menace, for not actually upholding their deal, for making a fool out of him). Fjord knows that his mind will not cease but he decides to give his body a break.

He doesn’t know how long has passed since he first decided to lay down, when he hears a scratching noise at his door, the sound of claws on wood. Frumpkin.

He pads barefoot to the door, one of his blankets wrapped around his shoulders.

Frumpkin sits outside his door, prim and sweet and ginger. Beside him, a metal bowl, similar to the one he keeps inside his pack. As soon as he lets the door open a little more, the cat rushes inside the room, sneaks in between his legs. Fjord picks the bowl up and closes the door once again.

Inside the bowl, there’s a gooey red-plum paste that smells sweet and minty and fresh, a few berries he doesn’t recognize and crackers similar to the rations he keeps in his traveling pack. A plate Caleb got for him, surely. The thing is: he’s never seen anything like this served at the communal dinner. Which means that Caleb made it for him somehow. Which is… something, alright. He didn’t know Caleb could do this kind of thing; seems a lot more like Caduceus’ vibe.

He eats, like a dutiful son eating his mother’s food, suddenly realizing how hungry he really is. The food goes down easy: there isn’t a lot of it but it’s tasty, sweet and light. It manages to settle down his stomach.

He lays down again, swaddled with heavy blankets, and sleep still doesn’t come easily but the food pulling him down and Frumpkin burrowing into his side is very comforting.

*

Fjord is up to do his duty only a bit after the sun crests over the horizon, painting everything, the whole sky, in bright pink and orange, a glaring bright thing that, unfortunately, doesn’t warm him any. He’s ready for the day after a few moments, despite the way Frumpkin keeps trying to distract him, rubbing against his ankles and sprawling by his feet.

Caleb’s room is as stuffy as ever, warm, filled with dense air. This is a new habit that he definitely doesn’t want to discontinue: shaking Caleb’s shoulder and watching the wizard peek out from his nest, bleary-eyed, a mess. He wouldn’t want to throw Caleb’s routine off, after all.

He sits up in a bed and starts tying his hair up. It’s still a mess, full of knots, mussed - Caleb hasn’t fixed it at all since they first arrived. His ponytail is tighter, though, like he’s trying to hide the mess; he barely succeeds at it.

“Caleb.” He looks at him, still focused on the ponytail. “Thank you. For the food.”

“No problem, Fjord.” He says, automatic, and concentrates on the ponytail. Gods, Fjord could punch him for the simplicity of it. Instead, he just clears his throat.

“Didn’t know you did that kind of thing.”

“It’s a recent learning.” Fjord doesn’t know what he means by that.

After his hair is done, Caleb is quick. Holsters, coat, poncho (and Fjord doesn’t know why it warms him to see Caleb actually put it on) and boots.

Ozra is waiting for them outside, only a little ways off, which is something they haven’t done in a few days. Not waiting for them, waiting for  _ him _ . 

Caleb looks at Fjord, and only Fjord, when the three of them meet up, “See you later,  _ ja _ ?” He says and gives the same look he’s given these past few days when they part ways in the morning.

Fjord nods at him, not know exactly what it means but recognizing it for what it is. Reassurance. “Yeah. See you.”

Caleb walks off. Fjord stares at Ozra.

Eventually, they say, “Walk with me.”

Ozra keeps a slow but not lazy pace, where Fjord gets to see the city waking up, watch the sky go from pink to orange-yellow, citric like the fruits from the coast. He misses their taste.

“Fighting isn’t just about picking up a weapon and going. Not proper fighting, anyway. You need a few prerequisites. Arm strength, a strong back…”

“And the best way to have me build that was to let me waste away doing brunt work? Without telling me about it, at that.”

“Would you have made the same effort if you’d known?”

Fjord stops himself from shouting,  _ Yes! Obviously yes! _ He just stares at Ozra instead and huffs annoyedly at them.

They don’t double down on the statement but don't shy away from it either. “Yesterday was proof that your strength has improved, at least, even if it’s not ideal. And now you know I’m not wasting your time.” They say, pointedly.

Fjord huffs at them again, still annoyed, unsure of the truth of the statement, feels daring enough to say, “We’ll see about that.”

Ozra, surprisingly (or maybe it’s not surprising at all), does not huff back at him.

They lead him to the southwest part of the town in silence, to a semi-empty field with a barrack to the side. Fjord sees the glint of metal inside that indicates weapons, several weapons.

Ozra heads straight to it, their back to him, unconcerned, and starts rummaging through it. “There are weapons here for you.”

Fjord summons the falchion and leans his weight against it, waits. Ozra turns back, a shortsword in their hand, and stares at it. Fjord isn’t sure what weirds them out the most: the gold, the barnacles or the currently-static eye.

Ozra approaches him, stops when there are less than ten feet of distance between them, in a stance Fjord doesn’t recognize, not in himself, not in Yasha, and not in his enemies, and says, “Let’s see what you can do.”

*

Ozra fights in a way unlike anyone Fjord has ever seen before, more controlled than Yasha’s raging strikes, and definitely more refined than any attack he’s ever made. It reminds him a bit of how the Crownsguard normally fights, the type of stance he’d expect from Bryce, actually, except it features a lot more expertise, a lot more concentration.

They’ve been at it for a couple of hours and Fjord can tell they are going easy on him, doing a lot more observing that fighting - and maybe that’s the point? At this slow-steady pace, he’s pretty sure he can keep up with them, even though he’s sweaty enough that his tunic clings to his skin and the cold breeze makes him shiver. Despite his shortcomings, how his body insists on betraying him, he knows he can take a lot.

This is the longest one-on-one fight he’s ever been a part of and it’s not even real. Even the roughest and the most dangerous of The Mighty Nein’s fights don’t last more than an hour and the few scrapes he got tangled in as a sailor were rough and quick fistfights. Not like this.  _ Nothing _ like this. 

He barely bothers paying attention to what Ozra’s doing, just keeps doing what works for him. Except he barely even remembers what works for him - it’s been so long since the last time he used the falchion for anything other than casting, so long since he’s been this close to an opponent. The muscle memory he’s built from chopping wood and cutting meat actually helps. Which, ugh, whatever.

Eventually, when Fjord starts feeling like a weak but very determined newborn fawn, Ozra stops, drops their stance. Fjord doesn’t drop his.

“That’s enough for today.” They say and stare at Fjord until he relaxes. They start walking back to the barrack but call over their shoulder, “Wash up. Maybe there’s work for you at the kitchens.”

It’s the middle of the afternoon, the sky is still a cold blue. Fjord vanishes the falchion. It’s not like he’s got anything better to do anyway.

*

Caleb is already at the house when Fjord finally arrives, sat at the kitchen table, smelling of sweet berry fruit and mint. He’s hunched over one of his books, focused on it, but not writing obsessively into it.

Fjord heaves himself onto the bench across from the wizard. Caleb watches him settle himself but doesn’t say anything. Suddenly, Frumpkin appears in his field of vision, seemingly out of nowhere, and butts his little head against his hand, asking for scratches and pets.

Fjord looks at Caleb and huffs at him, half-annoyed, half-charmed, but Caleb doesn’t say anything, just looks at him for a moment before going back to the book.

They stay like that for some time, Fjord half-cuddling with Frumpkin on the table, breathing easy for the first time that day while Caleb studies. It settles Fjord’s stomach even if it doesn’t settle his mind. He only looks up once, to watch Caleb’s face for a moment, notice the bags under his eyes, and the way his lips are stained red in an abnormal way.

When it comes close to the time he normally goes out and gets them food and Fjord starts gathering up the patience to put up with the communal dinner, Caleb closes his book, stands, and looks at Fjord, jaw set.

“Fjord. I can make us the same food from yesterday, if you want. Would you like to join me?”

It takes him a moment to understand. “Oh! Sure. Right now?”

Caleb arches one of his eyebrows. “ _ Ja _ , right now.”

“Okay.” He gets up too, Frumpkin hanging onto his arm. Caleb’s mouth twists down then up, amused, while he stares at them.

He exits the house and leaves the door open behind him. Fjord still takes his time putting out all the candles and closing all the windows to the place. When he finally closes the door behind him, the huffs and wet sounds tell him Caleb is cozying up with Jannik.

He scratches the giant cat for a few more moments before turning and walking in the direction of the that leads them out of town, the beast following him.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Caleb doesn’t even turn back to address him, just slightly turns his head. “To the forest, of course.”

Fjord frowns at him. “Are you mad?”

“I’d reckon we can handle ourselves, Fjord. And Jannik can protect us too.” The beast sniffs at the sound of his name. Then, Caleb says, a glint in his eye, “You can stay behind, if you are so worried.”

Fjord knows it’s a challenge, a very obvious one, at that, but he reacts anyway, huffs and puffs up his chest. “Fine.”

The corners of Caleb’s mouth twist down then up, even more obvious than before, and his eyebrows raise then settle when Fjord manages to catch up with him.

“So that’s where you got the berries from yesterday? The forest?”

“Where else?”

“You went to the forest alone?”

“I had Jannik with me. And Frumpkin.”

Fjord rolls his eyes and doesn’t bother hiding it.

Caleb says, quiet, “I can handle myself, Fjord.”

He nods. “I know.” Then again, “I know.”

*

“Didn’t realize you knew all of this.”

They’ve been in the forest for what Fjord estimates is half an hour, and his arms are full of an array of berries, purple, red and blue, and oddly-shaped leaves. Maybe they should’ve brought a bowl for this.

Caleb has not hesitated, not even once, in spotting the berry bushes and picking the fruits out, even in the darkness, like this whole act is half memory, half instinct.

“It’s what I’ve been learning at the cabin.” He answers, taking an allegedly clean cloth out of his pocket.

“Wait, what? I thought you were learning magic.”  _ That’s what I asked for. _

Caleb gathers up the berries and leaves on the cloth, ties it all up in a way that will be easier for Fjord to carry it around. “This is magic too. Just a different kind. Once you devote enough of yourself to it, the same sparks start to gather.”

Fjord only has half a minute to feel disappointed, to feel ashamed; he’d really thought his bargain meant something, that he’d managed to get something impressive for the wizard, had proved himself. Apparently not.

Then, Caleb’s fingertips brush against his forearm, light as a feather, and he takes Fjord’s wrist, the scar bisecting his hand rubbing against Fjord’s skin, proof of their curiosity, their voyage in the sea. Proof of how daring they both are.

He pulls Fjord up to a tree with little to no trouble, considering how the half-orc is not putting up too much of a fight, entirely too distracted. He lifts the hand up, places it on the tree trunk and lets go. “See?”

Fjord doesn’t see anything. Well, he _does_ , with the moonlight’s help and his dark vision; he can see anything perfectly from this close. He simply doesn’t see anything important, worthy of note.

“It’s soft, isn’t it?” Caleb says, his own hand up against the tree, brushing against it in an almost soothing motion.

And now that Caleb said it, he sees it, feels it. The tree bark is soft, like moss but less wet, like velvet but more alive, and not green at all, but a weird silver-blue instead. Unique and eerie, like no tree he’s seen before. It reminds him of Caduceus in a way, silver-gray and furry.

He barely manages to contain a loud gasp when Caleb stabs the tree trunk with the dagger Nott gifted to him, precise and merciless. “Caleb!”

The wizard doesn’t respond, just keeps cutting until there’s an incision of average length. He stops and sheathes the dagger without cleaning it up. Then, he starts pulling on the cut he’s made.

“Caleb, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer, just huffs and pulls until he manages to pull a piece of tree bark free. Caleb calms down, seemingly satisfied; he slides his pointer finger on the inside of the piece and sucks on it, the wet sounds spreading through the forest, replicas of them echoing inside Fjord’s mind like some sort of plague.

Fjord stares.

Caleb thrusts the piece in his direction, eventually. “Here.”

Fjord slides his own pointer and middle finger through the tree bark and they come away wet and sticky, like honey, glistening in the moonlight. He sucks on his fingers, tentative. The taste is bittersweet but good and light on his tongue; it makes his mouth water.

Caleb blinks at him. “Good?”

Fjord blinks back. “Very good.”

Caleb hums, gets closer to him, and goes back to making a mess out of himself with the syrup. Fjord doesn’t hesitate to join him. It doesn’t take long for them to scrape the thing clean, what with the way they eat it almost compulsively.

When they’re done, Caleb lets the tree bark fall on the forest floor, pats Jannik, who’s been dutifully keeping an eye out for them, and sends him off to hunt.

He turns back to Fjord. “Shall we go? I can make jam at the house.”

*

“Fjord.” Caleb says the next morning, after Fjord has shaken him awake, midway through tying up his boots.

“Yeah?”

He finishes with the boots and straightens up, silent. He scratches his chin, his beard, the noise loud inside the otherwise quiet room and not that different from when either of them scratch Frumpkin.

“I haven’t come across one mirror in this whole village. I can’t shave without it. Would you like to do it for me?”

Fjord is too startled to blurt out anything but, “What, right now?”

Caleb looks at him, his face doing a funny thing, like it can’t decide between frowning and arching an eyebrow. “Could be.” Something must change in Fjord’s expression because after a moment Caleb says, “Or we can do it later, if you want.”

“Yes, later! Later sounds like a good idea.” Maybe he won’t be so shaky then.

“ _ Ja _ , okay.”

*

Ozra is waiting for him outside the house once again, same as yesterday, their expression neutral, their arms crossed.

The two of them watch Caleb for a while, as he makes his way through town to the cabin on the westward side of the settlement. Then, he takes a turn and is out of sight.

“C’mon, warm up.” Ozra says to him and starts jogging.

“What?”

“C’mon.” They call over their shoulder and Fjord can do nothing but follow.

The height difference between them means that while Ozra keeps an average jog, Fjord has to maintain a slight run. He makes sure to keep his breathing measured, makes sure not to trip and hopes he doesn’t look like a complete imbecile. Thank the gods there’s barely anyone outside right now.

Ozra leads them to the same empty field and immediately goes for the barracks, no breaks. Fjord slows down, trying to catch his breath and mostly succeeding at it. Ozra comes back with the same shortsword from yesterday in their hands.

“No magic shit today. Pick a weapon.”

The only reason a cold sweat doesn’t break over Fjord's body is that he’s already sweaty. He can’t complain - this is what he wanted, right?

The barrack is filled with weapons, glinting metal, all sharp and bright. And there’s not one falchion in sight. He skips over the daggers (he would never dare to be that close) and lances (not dextrous enough for them), eyes the swords (longswords are too heavy, shortswords not versatile enough), and finally rests his eyes on the scimitars.

They are not too different from the falchion, if only a little lighter, a little slimmer. And he knows enough about them from watching Molly train with his,  _ fight _ with his. It’s been such a long time since he last saw Molly, since he last saw his weapon’s original form, instead of the sea-twisted thing Uk’otoa made it - it all feels like it happened a lifetime ago.

These scimitars are nothing like his, boring and entirely too functional, nothing like the colorful and twisted scimitars the tiefling originally fought with. Looking at them leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He takes one anyway.

Ozra eyes the weapon when Fjord finally exits but, thankfully, doesn’t comment on it.

They settle into the same stance from yesterday, the one Fjord doesn’t recognize and has half a mind to mimic, and then they say, “Come at me.”

Fjord only hesitates for a half a second. Ozra still escapes him, merely steps aside to avoid the attack. Fjord twists his body so that the overbalance doesn’t make him stumble and settles into battle stance again.

Ozra nods, either at the action or at him. “Again.”

The better part of his day goes on like that. It’s tiring and, most of all, frustrating. His attacks are half-formed and rarely ever hit; when they do, they are easily blocked. Ozra never stops fighting even while they are correcting his stance and reciting everything he’s done wrong. Advice on bettering himself is rarely provided.

By the end of it, though, there are a few drops of sweat rolling down their forehead, a natural bodily response, which is barely satisfying but at least it’s something, right?

*

When he finally gets back to the house, the sky is an ugly mix of purple and orange-yellow, a sorry sight, almost like a bruise.

Caleb is already there when he arrives, eating ration crackers and feeding one of the berries from last night to Fumpkin. Fjord shouldn’t be surprised at this point, honestly.

All he wants to do is throw himself somewhere soft, comfortable, and sleep away the tiredness in his bones like there’s no tomorrow. He can’t do that though. He throws himself on the bench across from Caleb instead and rests his head on the kitchen table.

“I thought you were gonna make more jam with those.”

A garbled response, “There’s still enough to make jam.”

He snorts. “Sure.”

For a few moments, there are only the dry-wet sounds of Caleb and Frumkin chewing, doing away with their snack.

“So. Will you shave me?”

Fjord perks up. He’d completely forgotten about that.  _ Oh _ , he thinks. “Oh.” He says.

“I thought it’d be a good idea to do it before it gets too dark.”

“Yeah, that-.That’s a great idea, Caleb.”

“Thank you, Fjord.”

Fjord gets up, goes around the table, lost. He didn’t prepare at all for the task, didn’t think about it once today, even though he probably should have. Typical Fjord.

“I brought-” Caleb starts, then goes to a corner of the kitchen and drags a small basin filled with water to where they are standing, sets it on the kitchen table. “I brought this to help.”

“Okay. And lather?”

“I can make it.”

Fjord’s eyebrows dip down at that. “You can?”

“I didn’t have the spell prepared last time. I do now.”

“Razor?”

“It’s in my pack.”

“Okay. I’ll get a washcloth.”

They stumble into each other when trying to get to their rooms before finally managing to diverge paths. Fjord spends a little while trying to pick the cleanest piece of fabric that he has (which will be better than the most pristine one  _ Caleb _ has, anyway) and when he goes back to the kitchen, the wizard is already there, a razor in his hand, the basin by his side.

Fjord approaches slowly, hesitant. Caleb simply sticks the razor out so he can take it and spreads his legs so Fjord can stand between them. His cheeks warm when the inside of Caleb’s knees brush against the outside of his thighs.

He wets the cloth and rubs it against Caleb’s cheeks, careful so he won’t get too rough about it.

When he takes the cloth away, Caleb starts drawing symbols along his own cheeks and jaw, murmuring words Fjord doesn’t understand, melodic and strange and powerful. Soap suds begin to appear, half-spontaneous and all magical.

The wizard tilts his chin up, exposing the elegant, long column that makes his throat to Fjord; he only spares a glance at the half-orc, brown eyes half-hidden by fanned eyelashes, before he looks up, staring at the ceiling. Entirely too trusting, entirely too calm.

Fjord makes sure the razor is clean and begs that his hands are steady enough before he finally starts.

A soft noise echoes around them whenever the blade slides along Caleb’s skin, slow and evened out, the red hair gone after one or two passes. Their breathing matches up, deep and measured, just to make sure no accidents happen, that neither of them gets hurt.

Fjord’s fingers skitter along Caleb’s cheeks, hesitate to cup his jaw, all light as a feather, like he’s afraid to touch. This kind of delicate work makes him feel oafish, brute-like, too big for his own skin: he has no business doing this - these small things are not made for him, not made for his kind.

He takes too long, determined to do a good job, to be decent.

Caleb doesn’t admonish him for any of it, stays as still as a statue, looking up, and it’s almost like he’s not there, like there’s no one to judge Fjord for his shortcomings. It’s at the same time unsettling and comforting. Fjord could punch him for it.

When he’s finally done, the wizard rubs his hands along the lower part of his face, heavy like Fjord didn’t dare to be, seemingly delighted in the newfound softness and smoothness.

“There you are.” Fjord says, like some kind of fool.

Caleb finally, finally,  _ finally _ looks at him. “Here I am.”

*

The next day, Caleb is the one to wake Fjord up, by gently knocking on his door and letting a dim arcane light globule drift into the room. He doesn’t shake him awake, just waits, leaning against the door frame.

Fjord scrunches up his nose before he slowly opens his eyes, already frowning, and looks at Caleb. The wizard looks at the same time more and less rumpled than usual: he looks more tired than he did last morning and there are a few strands of red hair escaping from his ponytail but Fjord can now see the rise of his cheekbones clearly, the sharp cut of his jawline - clean-shaven is a good look on him.

He sits up, shuffles until he can throw his legs over the edge of the bed and let his feet touch the ground. As he rubs the sleep out of his eyes, “You okay?”

“Ja. Woke up early today. Thought I’d do you a favor.”

“Thanks, appreciate it.”

Caleb hums, already walking away, and Frumpkin struts inside the room to greet him, rubs his body against his leg and doesn’t stop until Fjord scratches his head. The half-orc spends an insane amount of time petting the cat, trying to memorize the softness of his fur, register what makes him blink his eyes in satisfaction.

They still manage to leave the house mostly on time, even if Fjord’s hair is a little more messy than usual. 

Ozra doesn’t greet them good morning but they do eye Caleb’s now beardless face and Fjord’s bed hair. When Caleb starts in the direction of the cabin, Ozra follows him.

Caleb looks at them, frowning.

“We are joining you today.”

At the same time:

“You are?”

“We are?”

Ozra doesn’t look back at him to respond, just keeps their eyes on Caleb, steady. “Yes.”

After a moment, Caleb shrugs, turns his head back to the path ahead of him, calm like nothing about this worries him. “Okay.”

Fjord has to take a few rushed steps to catch up to them.

Some clouds litter the grey-blue sky today, all white and fluffy, nothing too worrying, although he does feel cold, shivering inside his thin tunic, aching for the heat of a morning fight, a morning run, the daily exercise his body has become used to. That’s probably the only thing besides an actual hearth that could warm him up right now.

The breeze starts picking up right when they arrive at the cabin. It looks the same: tiny and built with dull-gray wood, like everything else in this place. The wind makes the rocking chair move with fierceness but it doesn’t manage to budge the front door; it remains still, only a slim bit open.

Caleb enters, Ozra follows, and then Fjord. He closes the door behind him. Caleb has not forged ahead into the house; he’s only a few steps in, hunched over and unlacing his heavy boots.

Fjord looks down at his own, prettier and lighter than Caleb’s, definitely not as weathered and filthy. He glances at Ozra’s feet - their sandals have already been toed off, have been carefully put aside. Fjord reaches down to take his shoes off as well.

Caleb waits for him, pats his shoulder when Fjord finally straightens up. “You will not get scolded like I did.”

He leads them to the back of the house, Fjord shadowing him and Ozra behind them.

“ _ Hallo _ .” He says, when they are outside and the person he’s talking to turns and has Fjord standing stock still.

A dark-skinned woman, with greying locs and a knitted kilt covering her shoulders. Not just any woman, a  _ human _ woman. The first human he’s seen, besides Caleb and Beau, since they arrived in Boroftkrah. He shakes himself, realizes he’s staring, knows it’s rude to do so and stops. He tries to hide his astonishment, probably does a piss poor job at it.

“This is Fjord.” Caleb says, stepping on the grass like that’s natural for him. It probably  _ is _ , at this point. “He’s like me.”

She gets up, quick, agile. “Magic?”

“ _ Ja _ .”

“Give me your hand.” She says to  _ him _ .

He does, half-panicked, half-surprised. She skims an owl feather over the palm of his hand, slow and deliberate. After a few moments, she hums like some question has just been answered.

“Not like you.” She says to Caleb.

“We’re similar enough.” He says, squinting at her, sounding almost protective.

They stare at each other for a few seconds before she finally lets Fjord’s hand go and tucks the feather into a hidden pouch. “You may call me Yaga.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“You know how to make tea?”

Fjord shakes his head. She huffs at him.

“What do you need today?” Ozra asks.

She huffs and squints at Ozra too before saying, “Shadesbreath sap.”

They look at him then. “You have a dagger?”

Embarrassingly enough, he doesn’t. Not on his person, anyway. Before he can answer, Caleb squeezes his shoulder, reassuring, and says, “He may have mine.”

Ozra shrugs. Caleb hands him the sheathed dagger.

Yaga makes a motion with her head then, towards the house, while looking at Caleb. “Come on. I’ll show you how to make hair cream.”

Caleb sighs and goes, leaves Fjord with no parting words, doesn’t look back at all.

“Come on.” Ozra says, stepping on the grass and walking towards the forest like this is natural too. Maybe it is. “This kind of precision work will help you later.”

Fjord follows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading this and thank you to everyone who commented last chapter - it motivated me a lot!!!
> 
> you can find me as @female-pain on tumblr and as @detectivenott on twitter!!

**Author's Note:**

> please warn me if you catch any grammar mistakes or typos in this, so i can correct them!! new chapter [omnious vc] Soon.   
> it'll still take some time bc it's gonna be quite a bit longer than this one, which is fortunate for you but like, unfortunate for my wrists and also my peace of mind.
> 
> you can find me as @detectivenott on twitter or follow me on tumblr as @female-pain!!


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